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He grunted, knotting his kerchief about his throat. “I’ve thought of something else for you to do on the morrow.”

“Oh?” she sounded wary.

“I need to speak to someone first tomorrow morning, but I think it will suit.”

“Not now?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not now.” He let his eyes wander over her as Lizzie frowned distractedly.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with my legs, does it?”

“Your legs?” he frowned. “I don’t think I – ”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said hurriedly. “Forget I said it. So what happens now?” she asked. “Does the fair shut down for the night?”

He gave a short laugh. “Far from it. Come on. Let’s go find something to eat.” He offered her his arm and Lizzie took it. He was pleased to see she took less time to pause each time. Heading for the exit, he called a brief goodbye to his brothers.

“You coming back later?” Jack called after them. “You can watch me in the ring, see how I’ve improved.”

“We’ve got better things to do,” Benedict replied as they passed outside into the milling crowd. They had walked to the end of the row and turned into the next before either one of them spoke.

Lizzie cleared her throat. “You don’t need to return to the tent this evening, then?” she asked.

“No, I’ve taken my turn in the ring for the day.”

“How will they manage without you? Who will take over the betting book if Jack is boxing?”

He shrugged. “Frank probably.”

“Does Frank never box himself?”

Benedict felt a twinge of irritation. “Do you want to talk about my brothers all night?” he asked and even he heard the edge to his voice. Damn it.

She was quiet a moment, then asked, “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

“Us,” he answered gruffly and heard her indrawn breath. Perhaps that had been a bit too direct. “What do you fancy for supper?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the stalls they were passing.

Lizzie glanced that way, looking grateful for the change of subject. At that moment they were passing a coffee stall that also sold hot eels and pea soup as a sideline. “The Napps were very fond of pea soup,” she commented. “It was a good deal cheaper in the East End,” she added critically, noticing the scrawled sign. “And those cups look rather small. Mrs. Napp used to buy a whole pint for a ha’penny and thought it very nutritious.”

“They hike the prices up at the fairs,” he answered. “But I refuse to buy you pea soup for supper when there’s fried fish to be had.”

“Fried fish? Is that your favorite, then?” she asked looking at the bewildering array of stalls on offer.

“It is,” he replied promptly. “They fry it in a batter made with beer.”

“It sounds … interesting,” Lizzie conceded.

They ate their fried fish out of newspaper sat on wooden crates. It was served with a buttery baked potato on the side and sprinkled with salt.

“Good?” he asked curiously, watching her lean back with a sigh.

“Very good,” she conceded. “I haven’t had fish cooked this way before.” Having finished her food, she gazed around in bemusement at the teeming crowds. “Is it always this busy?” she asked after a moment.

He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. “Always. Greenwich is one of the biggest fairs in the country.”

Lizzie dabbed the corners of her mouth delicately before handing it back. “I collect that you and your family tour the fairs all year long.”

He nodded. “Though in truth it’s nine months in all, not twelve.”